


We Meant, In Time, To Measure Up

by musicforswimming



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Rituals, Aliens Made Them Do It, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger spills a drink on Martha. Local etiquette is very clear on how the situation must be handled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Meant, In Time, To Measure Up

**Author's Note:**

> For the "spanking/paddling" square on my kink_bingo card. Title is from Heather McHugh's poem "[A Physics](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2003/08/20)".

"Hey," she says, before even thinking of it, and the guy who's just spilled her drink on her says "sorry," and just as she's said "no problem" they both realize everyone's staring at them.

So everyone's seen them, seen one of the Most Incandescent Duke of Banwere's guests insulted—and thus the Duke himself insulted—by a stranger who no one can quite remember inviting. Everyone was horrified at his clumsiness, and Martha can feel her dress getting sticky except she's got to punish this guy instead.

She really wishes, as the two of them are led into the Punishment Alcove, that Jack and Mickey would get that malfunction in their ship worked out, or even just _not_ get it worked out and come crashing through the roof. Or just that Jack were here, to take over the sexy punishment duties for her.

The Alcove's private, at least, or feels like it. It's not what she'd've expected from the name, either; it's like the IKEA version of a sex dungeon, all light and smooth surfaces, except, of course for the—ah—accoutrements hanging over on the wall. They're in happy bright colors, brilliant as jewels. Martha swallows at the sight of them, and as soon as she's sure they're alone, she turns to him. "We don't have to—"

"Oh, we may as well," he says, in a way that feels strangely familiar.

"Sorry," she asks, trying not to stare at the floggers, "have we met?"

"Might be," he answers. "I'm not from here, either."

"Where, then?" she asks. He seems, at least, to understand what's going on here, for all that it seems he's as much a stranger as she. Martha turns and he's already naked before her.

"A long way away," he says, and kisses her. He's stiffening against her leg already—she can feel everything through this fabric, some strange alien silk as thin and strong as spiderwebs.

"Me as well," she says, when he finally stops kissing her. "From a long way away, that is. I'm not sure that's part of the process, but might be they'll make allowances for a couple of aliens, eh?"

"Might be," he agrees, and then he breathes deeply, which is just as well because she needs a few good breaths, too. She feels better, like this, and worse, with him naked and taller than her, lean and angular and his eyes dark.

"You look human," she says softly. "I know a lot of people do, though, and I need to make sure I'm not going to do any damage."

He laughs a little, but it's not at her, not when he opens his eyes and she sees how far away he looks. "You sound like a doctor."

"Well, that's good, I guess, seeing as I am one."

"So am I, though that doesn't seem worth much anymore."

Prickles along her skin, and even as she asks the question, she knows she doesn't need to. "What's your name, then, Doctor?"

She's barely listening, the prickles are bees buzzing all over her, all around her, crawling along her skin, but she knows that he says, "Oh, call me John Smith, I suppose," because of course he does, of course he is.

"Right," she says, and though she managed not to giggle at the awkwardness of this all before, now she feels like she's on the verge of hysterical laughter. _Don't say anything. Don't say anything. He doesn't know you, he hasn't met you, you don't know what you'll change by telling him._ But perhaps that could help things, perhaps that could make things better—don't abandon a girl on a beach a universe away, Doctor, and don't you overlook what you've got in that girl's boyfriend, although I don't know why I should let you have him instead—

"Anyway," he says, as she draws another breath, and before saying anything else, he kisses her forehead. "You're supposed to be punishing me right now, aren't you, Doctor?" he asks her.

"Right," she says, and can't imagine how she's going to go through with this now. But she doesn't feel the boiling of hot, frightened laughter anymore, and that's something. It's a different kind of warmth, spreading through her—the tenderness of that kiss is what did it, of course, and it makes it a little easier to think of him as someone else entirely, if he would do that.

The recommended number, for this offense, by hand, is thirty. The minimum required is ten. She can barely imagine one, and has to close her eyes at first, breathe deeply and wish, once more, for Jack and Mickey to get back from wherever in God's name they've got themselves lost this time—

"Doctor?" he asks her, gently, and Martha opens her eyes and glares at him.

"Don't rush me," she snaps, and adds, "you're not much of a penitent, are you?"

"Never have been," he says, grinning. She wants very much, she realizes with a pang deep as any loss can be, to know this Doctor; she aches with how much she wants to know him. He's the same, sometimes, from the corner of her eye, but he's different, so very different, quieter and stiller and…

"I know," she says, before she realizes it, and he's frowning at her, and she needs something, anything, to avoid the discussion because she cannot deal with changing the course of history, she really can't, and not until her hand is stinging and the crack of the sound is ringing in the room does she realize she's found the distraction she was praying for, and it's exactly the thing she was hoping someone would distract them both from in the first place.

He hisses, and looks back at her again, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes working furiously now. "What did you say—"

"You're supposed to be silent," she says. He's not, necessarily, but if she says he is, he is, and she's said it, and she's grateful, now, for this custom.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, rolling his eyes, and she hits him harder this time.

"I said silent," she repeats, and he looks back at her, and frowns again, and because she can't bear that look any more, she grabs his head, forcibly, and turns it forward. He lets her, and that's another surprise.

She does the counting herself, and by the end, he's not just a little stiff, he's fully hard. "That's ten," she says, softly, "that's the minimum." She's blushing furiously, she must be, and his skin is warm where she's struck him. Martha lays a hand there, barely, marveling anew at her own boldness, and at the warmth she's lent to his skin.

"Oh, Doctor," he says, his voice barely reaching her this time, not the brash, room-filling cheer of before. "I think that's a good deal less than I've earned."

"That's none of my business," she says, softly, but he still hasn't moved. Her mouth is filled with something that tastes like lightning, and she raises her hand again.

She doesn't count this time, only knows, at one point, that they're both still. He hasn't moved, not one bit, but his neck is no longer rigid, and his chin is on his chest. He's breathing hard, and when he realizes she's stopped again, she's already got her hand on his shoulder, pulled him to face her, and kissed him.

"Do you think you'd recognize me if you met me again?" she asks.

"Yep," he says.

"Are you lying?"

"Yep. When do we meet?"

She laughs then, just a little, as she answers. "Well, I'm not going to make things even worse by telling you that. Look, we can head for Morclane and get your memory wiped, it'll be—"

"No, thanks," he says, and kisses her this time. His cock is hard, and she wants this _so_ badly, it's all the old wanting but so different, because this Doctor is so different, with the stillness of some massive jungle cat, all muscles coiled underneath and dark glittering eyes.

"You're not supposed to disagree with me," she says, and gives him a little slap, right on the red, warm skin she's been laying into for some time now.

He says nothing to that, just hisses, his eyes fluttering closed, and she loses her breath with the realization that she has rendered the Doctor speechless. They kiss again, and she moves her hand between them, to brush lightly at his cock. He gasps, eyelids flying up again, and moves, pushing her against the wall and kissing her even harder this time.

"I'm very sorry about your dress," he whispers, as he kisses her shoulder, his hand settling at the sticky spot on her hip. It's still for just a moment, and then he starts bunching her skirt up, his mouth on the soft skin below her jaw. "And I'm sorry for whatever I do later."

"But not what you're going to do right now," she asks, trying to think of some mnemonic device, something like she'd use at med school when memorizing all the bones, all the muscle groups. She needs something that will keep this sharp in her mind forever, the way his breath feels against her throat as he kisses her, his hands on the fabric of her dress and, now, the skin of her thighs.

"No, Doctor," he says, and the smile she feels against her skin, so different and so familiar, for all that she's never felt him smiling like this before. "Not what _we're_ going to do right now."

All in one motion, he gets the dress over her head, and as her arms are coming back down around his waist, he's already slipping inside of her.

"Me neither," she murmurs, and knows, by the bliss that lights up every atom of every cell in her body, that it's true.


End file.
